Poor Thing

Poor Thing

Yesterday, in the afternoon rain,
I passed the small pond
in the middle of campus.

In the grass near the water,
a goose, barking,
swiveling its head
and throwing a strange, low call
in every direction.

A few of us stop and watch.
I think she’s looking for someone,
a woman says,
her nest is back there.

I look it in the eye
and try to read the expression there.
It seems tense,
as all birds do
when we want them to.

What do you want, goose.
Would it be better if I left.
What can I do, my dear,
poor thing.